Madia fought to pull free of Jolann's clutches, but the woman was older, stronger and half again Madia's weight. She had hold of a handful of Madia's dress just behind the neck and was moving swiftly enough to keep Madia off balance, pulling her, walking her nearly backward. Jolann reached the end of the hallway and marched into the great entry hall. The hard soles of her shoes on the flat stones of the floor echoed off the high stone walls, a report surely heard throughout half the castle.
Lord Burtoll himself stood waiting by the open door. He seemed disinclined to look at Madia directly as Jolann placed her, swaying and ruffled, precisely in front of him. He was perhaps as old as Madia's father, though not as tall a man, nor as handsome, and not so fine a dresser in his unadorned tunic and leather bonnet. A good man who generally seemed to maintain a degree of humor under most circumstances, though these, Madia observed, were not such.
"Bring her," Burtoll said in a solemn mutter. He turned and the three of them went into the street, then made their way briskly from the central keep to the manor's main gates. The king's carriage waited just off the bridge, escorted by two mounted men at arms, one on either side. The Lady Anna Renall stood waiting beside the open carriage door. Usually there were half-a-dozen carriages and wagons waiting for their charges, the daughters of the greatest lords of southern Ariman come to learn their lessons from Madam Jolann. This afternoon, however, having been held back until the others were gone, Madia had no company, or comfort.
"Why have I been forced to wait so long?" Lady Anna asked as they neared, in an aggrieved, demanding tone.
"Dear Anna," Lord Burtoll began, straightening his tunic with an air of purpose. "You must tell the king that while I will uphold my oath to him with my very life, and while I consider him the most worthy monarch in all the realm, I cannot allow his daughter to return within these walls!"
Lady Anna looked from Lord Burtoll to Madam Jolann, all insistence gone from her face, replaced by a painful, almost pleading expression. Jolann, for her part, was apparently in no mood to offer any help.
"She has disrupted lessons too many times to count," Jolann said, "as you and the king are both aware. She does poorly in her studies, much more poorly than the bright young girl that once graced these rooms, and she encourages others to do the same. Today, during lessons in caring for battle wounds, she explained that there would be no need for such learning if a knight inept enough to become wounded could only have the decency to finish the job and get himself killed! Task her on the ruling of a household, and she will say that is what people like myself are for. She will not read aloud without making up some of the words to suit her own humorous purposes, and she constantly conspires to mock not only myself but every lord and lady she—"
"She stirs the other girls, my daughter as well," Lord Burtoll said, interrupting Jolann, who was turning red and growing quite loud. "She refuses to quit with her stories of fortune and lust and strange adventures. She has listened well to the tales the minstrels and jongleurs tell in private company, to the boasting of troubadours and the knights of the castle, and I care not to speculate on how this has come to pass. I insist, however, that my daughter not be subjected to such, as do the lords who send the other girls."
Lady Anna stood stiffly, eyes avoiding everyone in the sudden silence. Then she glanced at Madia wearing a look less of pain and more of exhaustion, of defeat. Madia grinned in spite of herself. Lord Burtoll had never seen the wild looks on the other girl's faces; he didn't know how popular such tales and antics had made Madia. And probably Anna didn't, either. They never would.
"I will inform her father," Anna said, bowing her head, then taking Madia's hand. It wasn't fair to Anna, Madia thought, who lately had to endure such complaints on a regular basis, and who in turn had to endure the king's requests that Anna help do something about it. She was really the best lady Madia had had in recent memory, the only one Madia had been able to talk to since she was a child. Reform was something Madia had certainly considered, but it just didn't seem awfully practical. Not yet, anyway.
"What have you to add to this?" Anna asked, and Madia realized the question was addressed to her.
"I am sorry," Madia said, folding her hands in front of her, bowing her head.
"She said as much this Monday," Lord Burtoll grumbled. "Just the same way."
"And the week before and the week before," Jolann added.
The knight nearest the gathering chuckled softly.
Both women and Lord Burtoll glared up at him, and he reined his mount back just a step.
"I will inform the king," Anna said, curtseying abruptly and taking Madia by the arm. "In detail. Get in," she said.
As the carriage turned and headed out, not a word was said.
"I really am sorry. That I made the lord so mad, I mean," Madia said, noting how upset Anna continued to appear.
"Yes," Anna said, "so am I."
The coachman drove the carriage over the wide wooden bridge that crossed Lord Burtoll's dry moat, then he turned and headed down the road, toward the great walled city of Kamrit, and Lord Kelren Andarys, King of Ariman. The worst, Madia thought, was yet to come.
The city rose up over the fields before them, until its long stone walls and high towers eclipsed their view of the sea beyond. They passed by the main gateway, which consisted of portcullises and a drawbridge that stood between two massive towers, each with projecting becs. Instead, the carriage entered through the southern gate, part of the double walls and gates added by Madia's father some years ago. Here, away from the central market square and main guild halls, the streets were less busy.
Above them, on the second and third floors of houses, women with children beside them looked out to watch the small procession as it headed toward the castle. The children called out, and their mothers hushed them. Madia paid them little mind. She did not live among them; she lived just ahead, in the safety and seclusion of Kamrit Castle.
The castle itself was triangular in shape, with two of its sides forming the city walls nearest the sea. Two separate wards stood within the walls, along with accommodations in the castle's six towers and four gate houses, and the great hall. Only once had the city come under siege, and never had the walls been breached.
As they drew nearer, freemen and serfs alike took pause, acknowledging the presence of their princess. Madia, for all the fuss, ignored them—all of them, that is, except a young knight on horseback, young Calif, son of Baron Durun and heir to his fair lands, a knight who until this coming winter served in King Andarys' army, and who was at the moment waiting just outside the castle's gate.
Sir Calif, dressed in full armor and carrying his helmet under one arm, nodded slowly from atop his mount. "Good day, my lady," he said, grinning too much like a boy.
Madia leaned out while the carriage waited for the gate to be drawn up. "Good day," she said, smiling precisely, winsomely. She had only met him two nights before, when they were introduced at the minstrel performances, though she had seen him about, his eyes set in her direction, several times before that. Their conversation that evening had done much to define the meaning behind his gaze.
"Have you nothing else to say to me?" she invited him.
He bowed. "You are the most magnificent woman in all Ariman," he told her. She had heard these words from other men many times before; still, from some men, they never seemed to grow stale. "Thank you," she said.
"I feared you would not speak to me," he replied, and Madia recalled the suggestions he had made late in the evening, both of them drunk on the king's best ale, suggestions no nobleman of any station should have made to the daughter of the king. There had been one particularly daring, inexcusable description involving several tender parts of her person and his deepest imaginings. But Madia could excuse a great deal under certain circumstances, and she found daring a stimulating quality in a man.
"Then you remember?" she said.
The coachman called the horses forward again.
"Need I apologize, my lady?" Calif asked, moving with the carriage.
He didn't look nearly so embarrassed as he should, Madia thought, though she knew she was guilty of the same. "Not as yet," she told him.
He nudged his horse again to keep along side. "Perhaps I will see you again." He grinned, dimples and all. "Perhaps tonight?"
"There is a chance we might happen upon one another, in the inner courtyard, just after the sun has gone—" She felt Anna's elbow nudge her ribs as Sir Calif nodded and turned his mount. The carriage passed behind the castle wall. When they stopped, the soldier on Madia's side dismounted and opened the carriage door. Lady Anna scowled at him and pulled it shut again.
"This is not wise," she whispered. "You would do well to keep your silence in public, even in front of your guards and the coachman. the king will not tolerate much more of this behavior, as he has made very clear. To both of us! He cannot tolerate it."
"We have had this talk before," Madia said, turning away from her.
"You choose not to see the position you are putting him in. But people ask how he can control a kingdom when he cannot control his own daughter. You have made your father a laughingstock. If you don't care what all Ariman thinks of you, you might at least consider him!"
"He can fend well enough for himself!" Madia said. "And I don't care what anybody thinks of me. They ought to learn what I think of them! Dullards, fools and cowards, all but a few. Followers of followers, with not a notion among them. I am not ready to choose their lives as mine."
"You have a duty, my lady. You owe—"
"All my life I have been told of my great, boundless debt, to the serfs and lords and barons and merchants and gentry, to the memory of a mother I never even knew, to my good and honorable father. But what of me, Anna? I owe something to myself as well. And that is the debt I chose to pay first." She fixed Anna with a straight look, one she knew would be understood. Lady Anna looked away, hands tight together on her lap for a moment.
"I must report what has happened at Lord Burtoll's house. Your father will want to speak to you."
"I know," Madia said, feeling a twinge of penitence, a feeling that did not bear close scrutiny; she had never been very close to her father—or he had never managed to become very close to her—but she bore him no ill will, and she liked the Lady Anna much more than she wanted to admit.
Still, doing anyone's bidding was something that worked much better as theory than practice. "He will get over it," she said, "as he always does."
"Not always," Anna said. She opened the door and got out without another word.
Madia arrived at her chambers alone and began sorting through clothing, looking for something appropriate to wear. She wanted to appear as sweet and charming as possible when her father summoned her to his chambers. She wished to avoid too childish a look, as he had recently made a habit of describing her actions as hopelessly immature, yet she could not appear too womanly, either, too old and . . . responsible. Or overripe, for that matter—at eighteen she was already past the age when most girls were wed, and she had no wish to remind him. She needed to look young and proper, shy and needing, yet somewhat sure of herself; she needed to look as much like her mother's paintings as she possibly could.
She chose a long burgundy-colored velvet tunic and skirt, embroidered and drawn at the waist, then chose a small veil. She undressed, washed her face and hands in the basin near her bed, and put scent under her arms and neck, then paused to check her body for bruises. She had taken a pair of awkward falls the day before during her lessons at swordsmanship. Inexcusable, both of them. Her talents with a short sword were legend, or at least she liked to think they were. But her latest tutor acted so differently from the last few that she had been unable to establish a rhythm; in fact, she'd been made a fool of—a condition made all the more untenable by this new instructor's lack of skills. He was no better than the last, and only barely capable of teaching others.
She would do better next time, of course. Truth be told, she could hold her own against all but the king's finest swordsman—a boast her father found of little value.
She looked over her legs and arms, then felt where she couldn't see and found a tender spot on her right buttock. A dark line, she saw then, turning back just far enough, straining her eyes and posture. The bruise ran horizontally across three or four inches to nearly her hip, the mark of her new tutor's sword. He had slapped her with the blade's flat side, laughing as he did, she recalled. A minor humiliation she would somehow repay. . . .
Minimal damage, she thought, straightening up, deciding the rest of her skin and figure was in order; this, too, was the stuff of legend, or at least that was what many of the king's finest knights and nobles had led her to believe. She had no wish to diminish herself in their eyes, or Sir Calif's eyes, in particular.
As she finished dressing, she heard a knock followed by the voice of Sir Tristan, the king's seneschal, just outside her door. "Speak," she said.
"You are to meet with your father prior to the meal," he said through the door. "Present yourself in the great hall at once."
"The great hall?" Madia said, looking up, staring at the door. There was no answer. The seneschal had gone, perhaps, or he had nothing more to say. He knew just as she did that there was no reason for her father to see her at court, in public. He never discussed personal matters in that way.
Unless there was some function she was not aware of. Visitors, possibly, or an outing? And if so, the evening might be consumed by related activities that would leave little time for private scolding and hand wringing. Tomorrow, the both of them about in the castle all day, she was sure to hear more than her fill, but by then her father would have softened at least somewhat on the matter of Lord Burtoll's complaints.
She really would have to hold her tongue a bit more in the future, she decided, or at least try. She opened the door and found the seneschal still there, tall and bearded, and old, though she was not sure of his age exactly; he had a low voice that he never raised, never seemed to need to. Tristan had been seneschal to Madia's grandfather, King Hual Andarys, when he brought peace to Neleva and conquered all the lands north to the Ikaydin Plateau. He had served Kelren since the old king's death and, as anyone would tell, had served him well. She looked at him now, his face firmly set with its common lines, eyes unreadable. "What is it?"
"I would have a word with you," he said, facing her now with a coldness she could not defend against. She was used to men looking at her, but not like this. There was nothing adversarial in his manner, past or present, more a silent lack of deference. He had never spoken much to little Madia; he had never been a friend.
"Is my father well?" she asked.
"Yes. I would speak of something else."
"Please."
"Were you to attend court more often, and take a proper interest in the daily affairs of your father, you would know that he is not without troubles these days. Messengers tell of the desert tribes massing beyond the Kaya Desert, of their preparations for a war that may come to us. And there is unrest in the north, talk of Lord Ivran of Bouren and his son secretly plotting with the other great lords against your father's crown, and for unknown reasons."
"But they have denied all that."
"True, but they would. Do not forget that Lord Ivran's men are suspected of taking part in the death of Sir Renall."
She had not forgotten, and there were constant reminders. Renall, Anna's husband, had been grand chamberlain to the king since before Madia was born. He had fallen prey to robbers on the road. Villagers found him with his sword still in his hand and many wounds to mark the fierceness of the battle, the valiant death he had finally suffered. But riders had been seen, heading north on the road that same day wearing armor bearing the crest of Bouren, the mark of Lord Ivran's crown and scabbards.
More than a year ago, she realized, recalling it now, since the Lord Ferris had taken his place.
For his part Lord Ferris seemed competent, though she thought he had changed somewhat along with his new status; he had never been a strong or influential individual in the past, or he hadn't shown it. Lately, he seemed to offer council constantly, and her father tended to listen.
"The king does not ask for my help, and I doubt he needs it," Madia told him.
"Perhaps, but he does not need a daughter who constantly insists on adding to his problems, who humiliates and embarrasses him repeatedly, despite his best efforts to reason with her. He does not need enemies. The lords, squires and gentry of the city are laughing at him. His detractors have begun to cast doubt on his ability to control nations when he cannot control one girl. He has never been tested in a great war as his father was. He is under constant scrutiny from all quarters and must continually prove himself a fitting leader in many small ways, lest he prove himself unfit."
"Oh, that's absurd!" Madia sneered. "He is easily as great a king as his father. Everyone from the ports of Neleva to Ikaydin knows that to be true. He has kept his father's word and law, and kept the peace. All the realm has prospered. I cannot believe that the northern lords would plot against him, or that I can so easily ruin him, and neither should you."
"Only yesterday," Sir Tristan said, "Lord Ferris spoke of robbers in growing numbers along many of our trade routes. He believes they are organized and owe their allegiance to the northern lords, or to the merchant guilds of Glister and Brintel, which grow more powerful every day. They breed fear and unrest throughout the land. Who do you believe militant villagers might side with if there is a war? If the desert tribes swept into eastern Ariman tomorrow, or if the fiefs revolt, would the people trust King Kelren to protect them?"
Madia said nothing. Sir Tristan somehow made his face even longer. "Your father has already called many of the men of Ariman to arms, and Ferris has begun hiring soldiers as an early precaution, but such men need a leader. Ariman needs an unblemished king to follow. A strong king. And one day, perhaps, a strong queen."
Madia clasped her hands tightly together, felt them shaking just slightly even so. She was a possible heir to the throne by birth, but she had never been able to imagine herself as any sort of queen! She knew that her blood was something she would have to face one day, like aging, like death, yet she had managed to put off the truth quite well for most of her life.
And there was her cousin, the young Duke Andarys, son to her father's long dead brother. He had always been seen as the more likely heir, and Madia had made no protest, but the fool had set out on a tour of the realm four years ago, the moment his uncle had deemed him old enough. Word of his adventuring had come from time to time, until two years ago, when he had been seen heading over the Spartooth Mountains toward the lands beyond. Another message arrived a year after that: news only that the duke was alive and well, and a promise to return in good time. But with the passage of yet another year and no further news, hopes had begun to dim.
Now, Madia's official destiny threatened to close in on her, to hunt her down. For in her cousin's absence, her father had grown older, and she had grown into a young woman. Madia loathed the thought of inheriting the throne.
"You have underestimated my father," Madia said, glancing at Tristan, fielding his stare as best she could.
"You have failed him."
She took a breath, mouth closed tight, nostrils flared as she stepped into the hall, then she reached out and pulled her door shut, cracking oak against stone with a jolt that echoed like cannon fire.
"My father is waiting," she said, and brushed past.
The day's gathering found the king's officials present in numbers: squires and lords, stewards, chancellors, men-at-arms and gentry, their silk or gold-trimmed tunics and embroidered dresses complimenting the silk and sendal hangings that adorned the high walls. Even the Holy Prelate from the city's Church of the Greater Gods was in attendance. Tristan took his place beside the chancellor and Grand Chamberlain Ferris. Lady Anna stood before the throne, waiting for Madia. She gestured, directing Madia to join her there.
Lord Ferris watched her unwaveringly, a face with too many wrinkles for an otherwise fit man of no more than forty, and eyes that never seemed to match his expression, eyes that made Madia feel physically uneasy, as if she were about to come down with some seasonal illness. She took comfort in the distance between them. A strange man, she thought, and no substitute for Anna's husband.
The crier announced Madia's presence. King Kelren Andarys, Lord Baron of all Ariman and the great northern fiefs, leaned forward and looked down at her for a moment, finding her with a scowl as intense as any she had seen before, but mixed with some newer—stress, perhaps.
Ferris whispered something in the king's ear. Kelren nodded but did not break his gaze.
"My daughter," the king said, loud enough that the words echoed back to Madia from behind, "this is to be the last time we will speak of your duties to the crown, and your duties to me. Today I make a proclamation: from the princess of Ariman there will be no further disobedience, no more reports of scandal or disgrace. Not from this day forward. As of this very moment!"
Kelren rose nearly out of his seat, the lines on his forehead growing dark with the redness that flushed his face. With age her father had grown anything but impulsive, was in fact known for an ability to control his temper in the most upsetting circumstances—usually, Madia reflected.
Earnest as she could be, she took one step forward. "I do apologize, Father. Of course I will make every effort to control my—"
"You have already made your efforts a hundred times, my daughter, as have I. And Lady Anna has made every effort as well, yet nothing works. Nothing lasts against your whims. No one seems able to reach your soul, if you still have one! Your teachers once spoke of a bright young girl, capable of mastering the sciences and the arts, medicine and philosophy, all as easily as she learned to charm her father. Yet this child-turned-woman now refuses to apply or control herself. Instead, she continually disobeys! She persists in disrupting not only her educators but her father's ability to rule!"
"My lord, I promise you," Madia replied quickly, somewhat stunned by her father's intensity, "as the Greater Gods are my witness, I have lately come to hold true remorse in my heart for my conduct." She gazed up at her father, making her eyes as big as possible, unblinking, so that the air would irritate them enough to bring a swell of moisture. "With the continued absence of my cousin, may the Gods keep and protect him, I have begun to see my station more clearly, and to recognize my many errors. In the future, I swear—"
Her father held his hand up, a command for silence. Madia had no choice but to comply.
"Whether the young duke returns or not, your actions undermine all I try to do," he said. "You have earned yourself a reputation that no one of royal blood would envy, yet for all your well-timed penitent moods, you do not seem to care. You say you are sorry day after day like a drunkard each morning, swearing off his ale."
He paused for breath and the edges on his face seemed to soften somewhat, though again, it was a look Madia was hardly familiar with. "I have finally come to believe that you hold no genuine regret in your heart at all. And therefore, no feelings for me."
"Not true!" Madia forgot herself. She stepped forward and up again until she stood nearly level to the throne. "You must not believe such things. Who fills your head with these lies?"
"My head can think for itself, just as my eyes can see. I am not blind, and not the idiot you take me for. Not completely. You, my daughter, have no right to speak of truth in this house."
"But I have every right! I am your daughter!"
"No daughter would continue to act as you have. For years I have believed you would finally grow up and come to good sense. But I have run out of time and patience and heart, and even hope. How long can a man love his own blood without any love in return?"
"Again you claim I do not love you. But I do!"
"Then prove it, Madia! Swear before your king and the court that you will bring no further disgrace upon yourself or this throne, upon your land. Swear it, and know that if you break your word, this time you will be sent away from this house and this city, cast out, until time and hardship have made you fit to return, or until a new life, or death, should find you. Rally the woman within you, if she is there at all!"
"I swear! I do swear!" Madia fell on both knees. She felt the blood ringing in her ears, heat flushing her face. She was blinking now, her sight blurred by genuine tears brought on by the sheer level of her emotions. She refrained from using her arm to wipe her cheek.
"Very well, but there will be no more discussion of this, my daughter. You have given your word to me and to all of Ariman, and I have given mine!"
King Kelren settled back into his throne. Grand Chamberlain Ferris leaned and whispered something in his ear again. The king seemed to nod. Madia bowed her head until her forehead touched the floor, then she slowly rose. There was nothing to say, nothing to do but turn and go. All eyes were upon her as she looked about. She wiped her face, then fixed her gaze on the stone beneath her feet as she paced slowly away, Lady Anna close behind her. Two young guards in gleaming, polished armor let them out of the hall. Madia knew one of the men well—but said nothing as she passed.
She could not eat with the rest of the house tonight, not after what her father had said to her, so Madia had food brought to her room. The bitterness of their meeting clung heavily, annoyingly to her. He was making too much of nothing, she reasoned, as kings sometimes did. He was losing his perspective, or didn't care to keep it. He's getting old, she thought. Her mother had died during childbirth, and Madia had always suspected that her father held her partly responsible in some way, though he would never admit to it. If he had found someone else these many years, a new queen to temper his moods and comfort him now and then, he might well act otherwise. If my mother were alive, certainly. . . .
As she ate her goose and bread and sipped a cup of wine, the thought of leaving Kamrit of her own accord crossed her mind. If her father did not love her, then how many others did? Or perhaps it simply didn't matter. He seemed determined to make the rest of her life the means of payment for all her past "sins." No longer the sweet, affable father of years gone by. A tyrant now, she thought. The kingdom beware!
She finished her meal and changed again into fresh undergarments and a deep claret-colored full dress with a low-cut bodice and tight sleeves. Then she plaited her hair and put it up under a short headdress and veil. When the chambermaid returned to take her plate, Lady Anna entered with her. The girl left quickly. Anna remained.
"You have somewhere to go?" she asked.
"A walk. I like to walk after I've eaten."
"Sometimes that is what you like to do."
Madia furnished the other with an abusive stare. Anna seemed to take it in stride. She reached out and touched the fine trim at the end of Madia's sleeve, then eyed the rest of the dress. "A bit snug at the waist, isn't it?" she asked. "And this," she added, waving at Madia's amply revealed neck and shoulders and cleavage.
"Not especially."
"Do not go to that young man tonight, Madia, please."
"But I make no such plans."
"You do, though I don't know why. Suppose you are caught? You heard your father! You saw the look on his face when he warned you. You swore an oath, Madia. He will hold you to your word, and he will keep his."
"I will not be caught! And my father would never truly banish me, not for any reason. Surely you can't believe otherwise. He is angry, yes, and apparently more upset than I imagined. But I am sure that's why he put on such a show, in order to frighten me into obedience. Wonderful theatrics, Anna, but little more. And frighten me he did! He may be losing his senses, but I am not. I will change. I will attempt to repair my ways." She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"I will conduct myself in a manner more fitting of my station, and all the rest. But if, just tonight, I happened to have an appointment with a perfectly lovely man, perhaps one last little adventure, then I would be most inclined to keep it. If! Tell me this, my lady, how will I ever marry if I do not see men?"
"Seeing them would be fine," Anna said, "if those visits were chaperoned, and if they stopped at that."
Madia grinned at her. "I remember wrestling with many of these same boys in the castle not so many years ago."
"I know," Anna said, "rough and tumble as any of them. But what has that to do with—"
"My father did not approve of that, either."
"This is different," Anna said.
Madia grinned all the more. "Oh, I know it is."
Anna frowned deeply. She looked about, as if searching for what to say next.
"Besides, any man, even someone like, for instance, Sir Calif, would have to live up to my expectations before he and I would engage in any . . . wrestling."
"Then I pray he is a dolt!" Anna snapped without a hint of humor. There would be no peace between them tonight.
"In the morning, we will talk more," Madia said. "And I will improve, you will see. I promise. But leave me now. I must go."
"You must not," Anna muttered.
"I already have," Madia replied, and whisked herself away, leaving Lady Anna alone in the chamber.
No one was about in the inner courtyard as darkness approached, except of course, Sir Calif. Wearing hose and a white shirt of fine linen, with blackwork at the neck and cuffs, and a short pourpoint coat over that, he looked as fine as any man Madia had known. He smiled warmly when he saw her approach, and Madia found the expression quite satisfactory.
"I was not sure I would find you out this evening," he said. "Word of your father's admonishments at court have spread to all the corners of the realm by now."
He was still smiling. Not an easily shaken man, Madia thought, appraising him further. He took her hand in his, bold again, then held it very gently. Young Calif had a great deal to live up to, Madia thought, recalling some of the men she had dallied with, the finest knights in all of Ariman. Though truly, he just might measure up.
She let him lead her on through the courtyard, and listened as he told her of his father's lands, of his own visions for the future. He had plans to clear more acres, and to enlarge his father's rather small manor, to make room for the family he would have. Some day. Then, as they arrived outside the king's stables, Calif began to talk about her, the way she looked in the moonlight, the way he imagined she must feel when properly held. Not awfully original any of it, Madia noted, but not bad, either. And she found herself wondering about him in that way as well.
She paused and stood close, facing him, just in front of one of the stable doors. "Then you must hold me," she said, "so that we will know."
After they had kissed, a long and passionate kiss, Madia let him lead her to the stable's ample supply of fresh August hay, where she let him hold her as he willed. In a few moments they were nearly naked, and locked in an evolving embrace of warmth and passion broken only by dry straw that nipped at Madia's fencing bruise. She ignored this almost completely. A moment later, she heard the metal rustle of armor, and the both of them sat up at attention.
They found themselves under the close scrutiny of four of the king's soldiers, and behind them, Lord Grand Chamberlain Ferris—and behind him, already turning away, the king.
The seneschal Tristan stood just outside the city's southern gates looking the girl over carefully. She appeared as much like a merchant's daughter as anything, thick woolen hose and a blouse of heavy linen, a dreary look, though her coat fit her snugly enough to make plain her femininity; it was made of fur and leather and covered her well to just above the knees, and was a bit too fine to be any but her own. A plain hood covered her head, her thick brown hair falling past her shoulders from underneath it.
Around her neck she wore a thin gold chain that bore a palm-sized circular gold medallion, its surface engraved with the king's mark and her own name, something Anna and her father had decided to give her, proof that she was who she claimed to be, should she need to present it. At her side hung a sheath filled with her favorite short sword, which the king had not objected to. Tristan handed her a leather drawstring pouch filled with food and necessities, and a few gold pieces. She hung it grimly around herself by the drawn cord.
"Keep the medallion under your blouse," Lady Anna suggested, taking hold of it and tucking it in. Madia stood limply, hands at her sides, allowing the intrusion.
"Your identity will bring you honor by some, but others might make a toy of you, or seek to ransom you back to your father," Tristan added. Then he tipped his head to her. "You have said nothing since we left your chambers, my lady." Madia only shrugged.
"Is there anything you would know, or anyone I should send word to?" Anna asked, her voice too thin, Tristan thought—not quite crying, but the woman was unable to still her chin.
Madia glared at Anna suddenly, a look that came from nowhere. "Word of what?" she asked wildly. "Would you tell others of your acts of betrayal?"
Anna shook her head. "I did not betray you, Madia."
"I am no fool! The fact is obvious, after all, despite what you say. My father was told of my rendezvous with Calif. We were followed, as well you know, whether you admit it or not. My own father has betrayed me—why shouldn't you?"
Anna stared at her, numb, or just weary of the argument, Tristan thought—just as he was. Madia had been at it for a day and a half, cursing everyone in memory, and the mothers that bore them. But especially cursing Anna. And with good reason, perhaps, Tristan speculated; Anna had quite possibly done exactly as Madia claimed.
"She means should we send word of your coming," the seneschal said, "to friends you might have elsewhere in the land."
"I—" She seemed to lose the words somewhere in her mouth for a moment. "I do not have . . . friends."
"Surely you have some destination in mind?" Tristan said.
"I have been to Kopeth before, several times. A busy city full of traders and adventurers. I may find I prefer such a place. Some will know me there. And I will make many friends. Perhaps the folk there will take pity on me, something no one in all Kamrit can seem to do. Indeed, a few might hold the thought that I may one day return to Kamrit and recall their kindness." She glared again at Anna. "Or their wickedness."
"How will you survive once your pouch is empty?" Tristan asked, hoping she might have an answer but doubting it.
"I have been taught many skills. I'm sure I will be of value."
Perhaps, the seneschal thought. Perhaps not.
"Kopeth may be sensible, but it is known for its dangers as well as its prosperity," Anna remarked.
"I can be sensible at times," Madia told her. "When I am allowed."
"He will relent, I think," Anna confided. "I believe that deep inside he still loves you. He will take you back, Madia, but many things must change first, and I think some time must pass."
"You must change," Tristan said.
"You must see that it is you who betrayed him," Anna said, starting in again. "And not—"
"My father is a heartless, evil man!" Madia screeched at her. "And you, Anna, are a traitorous, evil woman! The one friend I dared trust!"
"Enough, now," Tristan said, stepping between them. "It is time." He turned and took Lady Anna by the arm, then began to lead her back inside. Anna walked away, half turned around, looking back at Madia, all in tears now. Madia turned finally and started slowly up the road, headed north. Anna kept watching until Tristan was able to get her out of sight within the castle walls.
"They are both wrong," Anna said, straightening her dress, rubbing her eyes. "This is the worst that could happen to either of them. They need one another and yet—"
"Lord Andarys is king, my lady. He had no choice."
"I know." Anna turned away, quiet sobs beginning again. Tristan took a step toward her, then leaned very close. "We must trust in both of them."
"I did not betray her," Anna said, the tears flowing harder.
"I know," Tristan said, even though he didn't.
Anna nodded, then moved slowly away. Tristan waited patiently. When she was gone, he looked right and signaled forth a figure who waited there. Though a young man, and certainly a foolish one, Calif was a seasoned knight, Tristan thought. He wore light mail and battle leathers and the king's crested surcoat over that, and carried a leather traveler's drawstring pouch over his shoulder, as Madia had. His scabbard bore the same crest as his surcoat.
"The king puts great faith in you, Sir Calif. This is your only chance to redeem yourself in his eyes and, no doubt, those of your own father."
"He would have had me killed if I refused," Calif said grimly. "They both would have."
"Surely you don't want to see any harm come to the princess, all the same."
"Quite true, but she can get herself into a great deal of trouble, and I am not an army. Am I not even to be furnished with a mount?"
"The king wishes no one to know of his true concern for her welfare. A mounted knight would, you must agree, be rather conspicuous." Not quite true, of course, but Calif seemed to accept it. "Should I speak to the king of your misgivings?"
"No! Tell him I will guard Madia with my life, at the very least . . . and it will be our secret," Calif added a cordial bow.
"The king feels that a week or two at the mercy of the countryside will turn his daughter far enough around. She is your responsibility until then. Stay back so that she does not see you—which means making sure you don't catch up to her. But you are never to lose sight of her. When you reach a garrison, send a rider with word. At some garrisons, a rider will be waiting for you."
"I will, my lord."
"Then go."
Calif made haste, trotting out and making his way across the drawbridge, then he slowed and continued up the road. Tristan followed him to the walls. Madia was no longer in sight. He watched until Calif disappeared as well, then shrugged to himself. You have served too long, he reflected, finding himself unable to raise concern beyond a certain level, and deciding he didn't need to. He didn't have much faith in anyone at all these days.
Tornen approached from behind, leading his mount and followed some paces back by his squad of twenty men, hand picked. The seneschal turned and faced him. He was one of the most trusted captains in the king's guard. Today he would be entrusted with a part of the kingdom's future.
"Wait until young Calif is well on his way, give him perhaps half the morning, then follow along. The king wants you seen by neither the young lord or Madia, unless it becomes necessary."
"A distance may be sufficient for the road," Tornen said, "but what if she enters a village? How can we ensure her safety in a town from outside it?"
"You may have no choice but to show yourselves. It depends on the town, does it not? You know them all. Use your judgment."
"Of course," Tornen said, bowing his head slightly.
"No harm must come to her," Tristan reminded, staring into the captain's eyes.
"None will," Tornen replied, then he turned and walked away toward his waiting men.
They will all come back, or they will not, Tristan thought, and the king will have to live with either end, just as Lady Anna will. He walked back toward the castle, back to his duties.